


A Study in Cats

by Dimity Blue (Arnie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, Cat John Watson, Cat Sherlock, Divorce, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, F/M, Gen, unsolved case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Dimity%20Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The black cat stared at him, its pale eyes looking bigger than ever, and Greg frowned.  Was it his imagination or was that cat thinner?  It wasn't taking up much room at all on the stairs, and its fur was looking badly cared for.  Not that it mattered, really, as it wasn't his responsibility.  Scowling, he hardened his heart.</p><p>"No, no - I'm not a cat person!  Get out!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Cats

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Contains dialogue from the unaired pilot (from the transcript by arianedevere on LiveJournal).

Greg sighed to himself as he left Scotland Yard. It had been...well, he couldn't remember how long since he'd last got out early; normally, he ended up working late - if the criminals weren't keeping him busy, there was always the paperwork. Not that he had anything to go home to, now that Luce had gone. Maybe if he'd managed to work more regular hours...but he'd been a copper when she met him, and she'd known then his job was important to him...

He shrugged his shoulders, pushing the thoughts from his mind. What the hell did it matter anyway? She was gone and not likely to come back, and he was wandering home, not wanting to get there and see the place empty again. Dimmock had said he should get a pet, which Greg hadn't vetoed firmly enough, so he'd ended up listening to a long discussion between pretty much everyone else while Greg rolled his eyes and tried to keep his mouth shut. Dogs required too much attention for a copper with little spare time, so the consensus was that Greg shouldn't get a dog, which was kind of them seeing as he had no intention of getting a dog. Anderson had pushed for an iguana, Donovan for a couple of budgies, while Dimmock had suggested a cat. Greg really wasn't much of a cat or bird person though, so he'd ignored those ones as well. The Super, for some reason known only to himself and God, had joined in enthusiastically extolling the virtues of angelfish. Why angelfish specifically, Greg had no idea. He just hoped he wouldn't turn into work tomorrow to find himself the reluctant owner of an iguana, a set of birds, a cat, and a tankful of fish. Probably an ant farm too, if Gregson had his way.

Since Luce wasn't around to be annoyed by the smell of it, Greg took a slight detour and visited the local chippy. It had been ages since he'd been there, and, although the prices nearly induced a heart attack, he forked out for a piece of fish and a portion of chips. At least he'd be able to eat them in peace without Luce complaining about her diet while stealing his chips. He guessed this was called 'looking on the bright side' and thought it still sucked.

Greg got home and unlocked his front door, then jumped as a black shadow zoomed past his feet and into the house. "Not again!" Going in, he left the door open and pointed to the street. "You, out!"

The black cat stared at him, its pale eyes looking bigger than ever, and Greg frowned. Was it his imagination or was that cat thinner? It wasn't taking up much room at all on the stairs, and its fur was looking badly cared for. Not that it mattered, really, as it wasn't his responsibility. Scowling, he hardened his heart.

"No, no - I'm not a cat person! Get out!"

The cat didn't move. Greg took a step forward and the cat shifted...up one step.

"Don't you dare!" He made a lunge forward and the cat leapt up the stairs and disappeared into the bedroom. "Oi! I don't...oh, bloody hell! Fine, fine. No, really, it's fine." Greg slammed the door. "Don't make yourself comfortable up there; you're not stopping." Stalking off into the kitchen, he put down the bag and his work case, then turned the kettle on. "As soon as I've had my chips, you're going out!" he shouted, just to let the cat know who was in charge.

Muttering to himself, he made a cuppa, then turned back to the table to see the cat, its neck stretched out as it sniffed delicately at the edge of the bag. "You've gotta be kidding me!" Greg put the mug down and grabbed the cat. It slumped into his grasp and Greg took two steps then stopped in the doorway. It was thinner; he could feel every one of its ribs and the bones in its hips. "I thought you had a home?" he asked, though he didn't expect the cat to answer him. He sighed to himself. Soft, that's what he was. Everyone knew it: his parents, his siblings, Luce...even the cat had him sussed. "Fine. Okay. I know when I'm beaten." At least it'd stop anyone in the department from landing him with a pet.

He put the cat back on the chair and washed his hands before fetching two plates and a bowl. He'd left the milk on the counter so he grabbed that, then stopped. Were cats allowed to have milk now? He thought he'd heard...but his Mum's cat had always had milk so... Shrugging, he poured some into the bowl and put it down on the floor. While he had doubts, the cat had none, and it threw itself off the chair to stick its face in the bowl.

"I guess you're fine with it, then," Greg commented. He considered giving the cat some of his fish, but (despite the astronomical price) it wasn't that big and he really didn't think the batter would do the cat good. A quick hunt through his cupboard revealed some tins of tuna, so he opened one of them and put the contents on a plate. "Here," he said, putting it in front of the cat, "see how that does you."

At last, he was free to eat his own meal, though the cat joined him before he'd finished. A look under the table showed two completely clean dishes, and Greg came back up just in time to see one long black paw hook a piece of fish off his plate. "Oi!"

The cat disappeared with its trophy, and Greg hunkered down to finish up as quickly as he could, feeling distinctly harassed.

He finished his dinner, and sat back with his tea, waiting for the cat to reappear. It did, and threw a covetous glance at his plate. "There's nothing left," he told it firmly. He got a disdainful look in reply, then the cat began to wash its paws and face. Greg gave up and retreated to the sitting room when the cat moved on to cleaning other areas. "Geeze, it's a good thing I'd finished my dinner!" he muttered.

Casting another look at the kitchen door, Greg swiped the remote from the coffee table and turned on the TV, flicking through channels rapidly. "Repeat, repeat, repeat - they're not still showing that, are they?" If Greg remembered rightly, his Dad used to watch that programme every week. He shook his head and resumed his channel-surfing, then eyed the cat as it jumped up on the coffee table and stared at him. "If you like the satellite channels, make the most of them. They'll be going off at the end of the month."

The cat ignored the TV; apparently Greg was far more entertaining.

"What is your problem?!" he finally demanded, after two minutes of concentrated staring. From the cat, that was. Greg had been doing his best to feign interest in some Sci-Fi show with ships and explosions, but even large, well-armed aliens were fighting a losing battle with that cat.

The cat gave him a meaningful look, then jumped down and headed back into the kitchen. There was silence for a few seconds, then the sound of something sliding.

Greg tapped his fingers on his knee. There was nothing in the kitchen the cat could damage - well, apart from the dishes, and that'd save Greg the job of washing them. Oh, and his briefcase that contained his laptop.

As that thought entered his head, Greg leapt to his feet and dived into the kitchen. He was just in time to save his briefcase from crashing to the floor as that dratted cat had been dragging it off the kitchen table. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Greg clutched his briefcase to his chest. "Do you have any idea what the IT department would do to me if I broke one of their precious laptops?! And you! You're supposed to be persuading me that you're cute and cuddly and can't survive another night outdoors - not stealing my dinner and breaking my laptop!"

He earned another disdainful look for that one, then the cat stalked back into the sitting room. Greg shook his head and followed.

"Want to tell me what was so important about my briefcase you tried throwing it on the floor?" He slid the laptop out and set it up on the coffee table, the cat watching him closely. While it powered up, Greg opened up the file he'd brought home. He didn't know whether it was his age or his eyesight, but he found it easier to look at the photos for real. "So what do you think then, cat?" he asked.

The cat - Greg realised he'd have to find it a name if it was staying - stared at the photos, giving the impression that it found them fascinating.

After a few minutes, Greg started talking, explaining the case to the cat. He felt like a fool, but maybe talking out loud would help him see his way through the case - though if his colleagues ever caught him, they'd be calling the funny farm for him.

"This is where we found the dead body." He tilted the photo so the cat could look at it, then hid a smile as the cat leaned in and gazed at the picture. "He still had his iPod, so it wasn't a robbery - unless the thief was interrupted - but the guy's wallet was gone. Now, tell me," Greg put the photo down and regarded the cat seriously, "would a thief start with the wallet or go straight for the iPod?"

The cat's eyes met his, for all the world as if it was figuring things out.

"We found the guy's house-keys near the body too, so they were probably dropped while the killer was searching the body. If it was a random mugging," Greg ignored the disdainful look on the cat's face and kept on talking, "then it means the killer left the iPod and house-keys while just taking the bloke's wallet. So, the killer was possibly interrupted or the killer was after the wallet specifically." Greg continued ignoring the cat, which was now looking faintly approving. After all, he didn't need a cat to solve cases.

"So what's in the wallet?" Greg pulled out his own. "Credit cards, money, maybe some phone numbers..." And a photo or two. Greg dumped those in the bin. "Photos." He flipped to another set of pictures. "This is the guy's house. He obviously wasn't short of cash; he had the latest gadgets and a huge TV." Greg's team had spent some time drooling over that.

The cat's paw landed on another picture.

"Yeah, I noticed that - he recently took down some pictures. Or photos."

The cat stared at him.

"So you think someone stole his wallet to get a photo from it?" Greg mentally face-palmed himself; he was asking a _cat_ for its opinion on a crime. From the look on the cat's face, it was aware of his mental reaction too.

"All right, statements. His sister said he had no enemies, no reason for anyone to target him." Greg hit the keys on the laptop and opened up the next statement from the man's best friend. "Again, no enemies that anyone knew of." As the cat leaned forward, its nose almost touching the screen, Greg frowned and leaned in too. "He'd recently been dumped by his girlfriend. What? It was her photo in the wallet?"

Either Greg was imagining things or the cat was raising an eyebrow at him.

"You're a cat! How can you possibly know he had her photo in his wallet? And stop rolling your eyes at me!" Greg yanked the laptop closer and started going through the statements. "It's easy enough to find out - we'll ask the girlfriend." The girlfriend who hadn't been identified as no one knew her name. "Okay, okay, it's just a coincidence. Stop smirking. I'll go ask the best friend if he knows anything about her tomorrow, yeah?"

~~~

The next morning, Greg was in a hurry as usual, but he made sure to feed the cat more tuna before letting it out. If the cat turned up that night, he decided, he'd let it back in. If not, well, maybe the cat had a home somewhere and had just wanted a night elsewhere. Who knew with cats?

At least it'd give him an excuse to say to his over-helpful workmates that he had a pet...sort of. Also, he'd have to find the time to pick up some cat food before he got home, as he had no intention of feeding that cat all the tuna in his cupboard.

Greg got in to work and powered up his computer before going to find some coffee. Not quite to his surprise, the discussion on pets started up again as soon as he was in sight.

"You can save the suggestions," he told the group gathered around the drinks machine. "I've got a cat."

"I said a cat," Dimmock pointed out, looking a little smug as the machine burped out a polystyrene cup and filled it with the noxious brew optimistically called coffee.

Greg waited until he'd moved out of the way, then put his money in the slot and hit the coffee button. He sighed as the display flashed 'out of coffee' at him. "Aren't you off duty?" he demanded, eyeing Dimmock's cup.

"I was working overtime." Dimmock dared to look hurt as he drank the coffee that should have been Greg's. "I've only just got back from a scene."

"How nice for you. Go home." Greg chose hot chocolate, then sighed once more as another 'out of' sign flashed at him. "When's this machine being refilled?" He hesitated, then hit tea. Typically, there was plenty of that left as no one drank the tea if they had a choice.

"So when did you get this cat?" Gregson asked. "It's not as good as an ant farm, you know."

"Last night. It wandered in." More like invaded, Greg thought, but there was no way he was telling them that.

Gregson shook his head. "Ant farms don't wander - and they're cheaper to maintain."

"Too late now; I've got the cat," Greg replied, clutching his tea and making a hasty retreat to his office.

If he'd expected that to end the discussion, he was sadly mistaken. He'd just got back from a crime scene with Donovan when she disappeared into Gregson's office and came back carrying a box, which she promptly dumped on Greg's desk despite his protests.

"We had a whip round," Donovon told him, while numerous members of the 'get Lestrade a pet' club gathered in the doorway. "Everyone donated; even the Super put in a pound. Cat litter..."

Greg took the bag then almost dropped. "It weighs a ton!"

"Just wait until the cat uses it - then it'll weigh a ton!" Anderson said.

"Cat litter tray -"

"It can go outside for free, you know!" Greg protested.

"Bad for plants!" Gregson said. "And ants."

"This is London! There are no plants!" Greg took a bag of jingling balls from Donovon. "Why are these jingling?"

"They're for the cat to play with," she told him. "Catnip mouse, cat food bowls and cat food."

Greg gazed at the cans she showed him then put back in the box.

"I don't think it'll need all this stuff!" Greg was starting to suspect his workmates were in league with the cat. When had his life got so out of control?

"Yes, it will." Donovan produced a pile of leaflets. "The Cats' Protection League is having a promotion on neutering, so if it needs it -"

Greg got up and started pushing her out of his office. "I'll let you know!" He had no idea what that cat would do to him if he tried.

"And vaccinations!" The leaflets flapped in his face. "There's a list of vets too!"

"God save me!" He took the leaflets and managed to get the door shut behind them all. Now to phone that best friend before the cat started nagging. "This is worse than being married."

~~~

By the time Greg got home, he was heartily sick of the box and feeling pretty damned tired of that case too.

"So where is this cat then?" Gregson peered over his shoulder as Greg unlocked his door.

"Uh, around." As the cat shot past their legs, Greg pointed. "There. Well, thanks for the lift..." He tried to block the doorway with the box, but was forestalled by Gregson taking it from him and using it to push him inside.

"It's a fast mover," Gregson commented, dumping the box on the sofa and wandering into the kitchen. "Here, kitty, kitty..."

Greg had a strong feeling the cat wouldn't like that, and barely bothered to hide his grin when Gregson gave a yelp of pain. "It's, uh...he's not very sociable."

"You're telling me! Ants are easier, you know," Gregson told him, coming back in and leaving the cat in sole possession of the kitchen. "What's its name?"

"Uh..." Greg stared around in search of inspiration and his eyes settled on a set of books. "Sherlock." He mentally face-palmed himself. Sherlock? Why couldn't he have gone for Fluffy or Midnight or Dusky?

"Sherlock?! What the hell kind of name - oh, like Sherlock Holmes."

Greg didn't blame Gregson for giving him the side-eye for that, but he just smiled and offered, "It seemed appropriate."

"Just so long as it doesn't start solving cases for you."

Greg laughed, then sighed with relief when Gregson announced he was off.

"I've got to run the wife to her Pilates class. See you tomorrow." As the door swung shut behind him, Greg heard him add, "Sherlock. Jesus!"

As soon as he was gone, the cat appeared, leaping up onto the back of the sofa and peering down into the box.

"Did you hear all that? You've got a name now." And, by tomorrow, everyone in work would know Greg had named his cat 'Sherlock'.

The cat gave him a disdainful look and jumped into the box. As scuffling sounds started up, Greg wandered over to look. "What have you found?" He stepped back when the cat leapt out, a catnip mouse caught in its clenched teeth. "Donovan said you'd..." The cat disappeared behind the sofa and Greg didn't bother finishing his sentence. "While you're busy, I'll sort this lot out, then, yeah?"

The cat food and cat food bowls were easy; they went straight into the kitchen. Greg eyed the cat litter and tray. He'd let the cat out the night before, then left it - him, Sherlock - to sleep in the sitting room. It'd seemed to be fine, and it - damn it, _he_ \- had spent the day outside while Greg was at work. Maybe he could keep the tray for emergencies? He dumped the jingling balls on the sofa, then moved them to the armchair. He normally stretched out on the sofa and didn't want to end up sitting on them. 'Injured by jingling balls' - yeah, no way he was risking that. The embarrassment would kill him, if nothing else.

"Oi, cat - Sherlock! Do you want some food?" Greg took silence for 'maybe later' and put some food in one bowl, then filled the other with water. One of those leaflets had mentioned that milk wasn't good for cats - though the cat had lapped it up fast enough the night before - so water it was. That done, Greg washed his hands and set to making his own dinner.

He'd just finished when the cat came in and headed straight for the cat food bowls. The cat food didn't seem to meet with his approval and Greg ignored the look he was being given. "It's cat food - it's for cats. You're not living on tuna." Greg's wallet wouldn't take the strain, that was for sure. "Get a move on with it or I won't tell you what I found out about that case." To his surprise, the cat turned back to the bowl and began eating.

Once he'd eaten his own dinner, Greg put his dishes in the sink to soak, then went back to the sofa where he'd left his briefcase. Naturally, the cat was there before him, and jumped up onto the coffee table and sat down, apparently waiting.

"Don't get your hopes up," Greg said. "The best friend didn't know much." He opened his laptop and powered it up, then dug around in his briefcase for the leaflets he'd picked up. "According to Mr. Milton - that's the best friend," he added, as the cat gave him an enquiring look, "Jason Westlock had been using an online dating agency. Here, I managed to find this." Greg put the leaflet about it in front of the cat, then dumped the other leaflets behind the laptop. "He'd been dating some woman he met via the agency and... What are you doing now?"

As the cat's head rose from behind the laptop and his eyes narrowed in a glare, Greg realised. "Oh, Christ! Look, Donovan gave me those, all right? Along with that catnip mouse you're so fond of." He grabbed the leaflets and stuffed them back into his briefcase. "The list of vets might come in handy though - in case anything happens to you. It's only like going to the doctor for humans!" The cat's baleful look remained. "All right - I promise to not take you to the vet unless you're sick, okay?" He was sure his Mum didn't have this much trouble with her cat. "Oh, look, if you're going to be funny with me!"

The cat slid the last remaining leaflet into view - naturally, it was the one extolling neutering your cat.

Greg cringed, grabbed the leaflet and stuffed it out of sight, then recovered himself. "It's not natural for a cat to be able to read - you know that, right? But, since you can - apparently - what do you think of the dating agency?"

The cat frowned, then turned his back on Greg.

Greg sighed. "I'll take that to mean you're stumped. So was I. I haven't got enough evidence to get a warrant to force the dating agency to give me confidential information, but I did think to ask Milton where Westlock took his girlfriend on dates. Apparently, they favoured restaurants and theatres with the odd trip to the cinema. I doubt the cinema or theatre people would remember who he turned up with, but I spoke with some of the waiters at the restaurants." He tapped another button and brought up the statements. "According to most of them, he'd been out and about with the same woman a few times. I've got a description, but the chances of tracking her down are low." Greg sat back. "Unless I can find a way to get the dating agency to give me the info - which is doubtful, especially for a far-fetched theory - that looks like being it."

~~~

The next day, as Greg had expected, everyone in the Yard knew he'd named his cat Sherlock.

"Is he helping you with your cases?" Dimmock asked, barely bothering to hide his laughter as he went out of Greg's office door.

Donovan all but slammed it behind him. "Helping with the cases," she snapped. "As if!"

Greg gave her a look, wondering why she was so offended. "He really liked that catnip mouse you sent."

"He's a cat!" she informed him, as if there might be any doubt. "It's what cats do! They don't solve cases."

"Yeah, I know." Greg hid his head in a file to make sure his face didn't give him away. "Solve cases. Haha, what a thought."

Having misdirected Donovan in a masterful fashion, Greg got on with his job. It was infuriating that he'd seemed to hit a brick wall with that mugging murder case, but he had other cases to keep him busy. So much so, that it was past eight o'clock when he headed for home.

"Sherlock!" Greg looked around as he unlocked the door. "Sherlock, I'm..." His voice trailed off when he saw Luce sitting on the sofa.

"Sherlock. That's its name then, is it?" Luce smiled as though she hadn't upped and gone two weeks before, with nary a word in explanation.

Greg's gaze met Sherlock's, the cat giving him a look of outraged indignation from the top of the bookcase as though offended that Luce was sitting on the sofa and acting totally at home. After a few seconds, the cold draught from behind Greg reminded him that the door was open, and he shoved it closed with the flat of his hand. "What are you doing here?"

Luce gave a small laugh. "Well, I live here."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Until you left me a note telling me our marriage was over."

She had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Greg..." She looked around, then turned her back on Sherlock. "I know I left. I just felt stuck in a rut, like my life was going nowhere." She paused, then looked away. "If you don't want me here, fine, but I'm willing to fight for our marriage, even if you aren't!"

"Wait a minute - _you_ left. Remember?" Greg couldn't believe it; she'd always done this, always changed the argument so she wasn't in the wrong.

Luce stopped, her mouth set in a familiar, stubborn line. "All right, yes, I left. And now I've come back."

"So where have you been?"

Her gaze met his, then slid away. "In a hotel." Blue eyes flicked back to meet his briefly. "I couldn't go to my mother - she worships the ground you walk on." She folded her arms and hunched her shoulders. "I was going to stay with Deb, but she was on your side too."

That surprised Greg as he and Luce's sister had never got along. "She was on my side?"

"Oh, don't worry - she doesn't think you're some kind of paragon!" Luce snapped. "She just thinks I should count my blessings."

If Greg was counting as some kind of blessing in Deb's eyes, it had to be a new definition of the word. "So now what?"

"Well, it's up to you, isn't it?" Luce got up and stood in front of him, reaching up to slide one hand along his shoulder to the back of his neck. "What do you want, Greg?"

"I...I want..." Her lips were about to touch his, her familiar perfume reminding him of past times, the long, lazy summer days filled with lovemaking, then a loud yowl sounded from behind her and Greg's head snapped up. "I need to feed the cat."

By the time he'd fed Sherlock and washed his hands, a little bit of sanity had returned. He didn't know what Luce was up to, but he was pretty sure she was up to something - seventeen years of their relationship had enabled him to read her pretty well. At least, except when she was planning to leave him; he hadn't seen that coming at all.

The evening, when Greg looked back on it, was one long nightmare. The cat had spent the evening looking daggers at Luce, who'd seemed to be doing her best to ignore him while she tried to persuade Greg that their marriage was worth saving. Greg wasn't so sure. Every statement she made was setting off alarm bells - Greg's instincts as her soon-to-be-ex husband and as a copper telling him she was lying about something. It didn't help that she seemed deadset on flirting with him.

Finally, Luce rose to her feet. "I'm off to bed." She paused in the doorway, her gaze fixed on his. "Coming to bed, Greg?"

After a long pause, he got up and took note of the flash of triumph in her eyes. "I'll sleep on the sofa. I'll just get myself some blankets and a pillow."

The triumph disappeared, and she spun on one heel and stormed off up the stairs. Yeah, she was definitely up to something.

~~~

Greg woke to find a crick in his back and a cat on his hip. He rubbed his eyes and looked over. "What do you want?" He stretched, ignoring the cat's indignant look, then picked up his phone. It wasn't even seven o'clock. "It's my day off," he told Sherlock, wondering as he did so if that would make any difference at all.

Sherlock jumped down, made his way into the kitchen and rattled the doorknob, letting out a yowl as he did so.

"I guess not." Groaning at the stiffness in his back, Greg levered himself into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes some more. "All right, all right," he added, as Sherlock shouted at him again.

As soon as the back door was open, Sherlock was out and digging in the tiny flower bed. Greg shut the door and turned on the kettle, then made his way upstairs to grab a quick shower. With luck, Luce would still be sleeping. His shower over, Greg took the risk and sneaked into the bedroom to grab some clothes before beetling downstairs to get dressed. He thought it was ridiculous he was tiptoeing around the place, but it was better than dealing with Luce first thing in the morning, especially if she was in the same mood she was in last night.

Christ, his life! Who else had to hide out to avoid their wife's attempts at seduction? Who else would? There was just something off about the whole thing that got Greg's instinct as a copper on red alert. Well, whatever it was, he'd find out sooner or later. He hoped.

He hadn't even managed to make himself a cup of coffee before Sherlock was up at the kitchen window and glaring at him. Greg rolled his eyes and let him in, figuring it was typical he'd end up with a miniature dictator as a cat. Before Sherlock could start complaining again, Greg filled up his food dish and grabbed the water dish to fill that up too.

"He's got you better trained than I ever did."

Greg jumped in surprise and spilled water over the counter, then managed to recover enough to mutter, "Morning." He blinked at the wispy pink thing she was wearing over her nightie. They matched, he had to admit, but he had no idea when she'd abandoned her usual cotton nightshirts and starting wearing something like that. He took another peek as he mopped up the water, and wondered if she was supposed to be showing so much leg. Then again, it wasn't like there was a lot of material to start with.

"Coffee?"

Greg pressed himself into the corner as she leaned against him, though she didn't need to be that close to reach the mugs.

"Coffee...Greg?" She licked her bottom lip slowly, and Greg's mind short-circuited.

"You're wearing lipstick!"

"What?" She blinked at him.

"And mascara! It's not even half past seven in the morning! And...and this!" He waved his hand in the direction of the wispy pink thing as she backed off. "That's not a dressing gown - it won't keep you warm."

Luce grabbed a mug, a distinctly annoyed look on her face. "I was hoping to find something else to keep me warm!"

"Like what?!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Greg, I'm only forty-four! I'm tired of wearing sensible shoes and cardigans; I look like my mother! I want excitement, I want to be alluring!"

"Alluring," Greg echoed, wondering what the hell had happened to his life...and his wife.

"Yes!"

"Well, that explains the make up and the..." He waved his hand up and down again.

"Kimono, Greg, it's a kimono."

"Right." Sherlock yowled and Greg remembered the water bowl in his hand. "Well, I'll just..." He put the bowl down then reached for a mug, making sure to give Luce a wide berth. "Coffee! Coffee would be uh, good."

He got a long-suffering sigh in response, then she stalked out of the kitchen.

Greg blew out a breath and leaned against the counter. "So what do you make of all that?" he asked Sherlock.

~~~

Greg had planned on spending his day off catching up with laundry, housework, and doing the shopping. With Luce in the bedroom, slamming as many cupboard doors as she could find, he decided to buy breakfast in the supermarket's cafe and made himself scarce. Sherlock cast one glance up the stairs and followed him outside, then disappeared up the street with barely a flick of his tail in Greg's direction. Greg considered himself dismissed and headed off towards the supermarket.

As it was so early they were only just open, and Greg had to wait for his full English breakfast to finish cooking. He wandered over to newspaper stand and picked out a paper, then brightened the day by paying a reasonable amount for his paper and a huge amount for a packet of smokes. At least being unable to smoke in so many places was cutting down on the amount of cigarettes he was going through, but he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he couldn't afford to smoke at all now. Or maybe he'd have to resort to the habit of his teen years and start rolling his own again.

Sitting down at one of the tables, Greg realised he should have saved some money by not buying the paper as the first few pages and the editorial were dedicated to pointing out how useless the police force was and how many crimes were going unsolved. He sighed, folded the paper and put it to one side, and turned his attention to his breakfast.

By the time Greg had done the shopping and made his way back home, Luce had gone. He dropped the shopping bags in the kitchen and headed upstairs to check out the wardrobe. Her clothes were still there, so it looked like she was coming back. Greg really wasn't sure how to feel about that. It wasn't that he didn't love her any more...just that he didn't seem to _know_ her any more. What had happened to the Luce who'd steal his t-shirts and wear them to bed, then laugh when he complained about the wrinkles? Now she was wearing something pink and wispy, and putting on make up at seven in the morning.

Well, there was nothing he could do about her at the moment. Greg grabbed the laundry hamper and hauled it downstairs, then left it in the kitchen doorway while he put away the shopping. Once the first load of laundry was in the machine, Greg stood on the kitchen step, smoking one of his over-priced cigarettes and watching the smoke curl away and dissipate. He was burning money, that's what he was; he really was going to have to give up smoking. He'd been thinking that before Luce decamped, and her coming back hadn't changed that.

Sherlock returned before Luce did. He came stalking in, shouting at Greg and demanding something, (though what Greg couldn't work out), before disappearing behind the sofa. Luce, on the other hand, slinked in silently and gave Greg the fright of his life when he found her lying in bed.

She didn't even bother to lift her head from the pillow, merely stating flatly, "I still live here, you know."

"Yeah, I just..." Greg put the laundry hamper back while tried to find something to say, finally finishing with, "I thought you were out."

"I was. I came back." And obviously decided to spend the rest of the day in bed.

"Headache?" Greg asked, cautiously. "I can get you some Anadin."

She turned at that, displaying a tear-stained face, and gave him a half-smile. "Deb's right; you are too good for me. Go away, Greg."

Against his better judgement, Greg sat down on the edge of the bed. He never had been able to walk away from someone in trouble. "What is it, Luce? What's going on?"

Her face crumpled and she grabbed for some tissues and buried her face in them. "You're going to hate me!"

"Hey." He put his hand on her shoulder and tugged until she turned back to face him. "I can't hate you, Luce, but it's going to be better if you tell me what's going on." As her eyes met his, a look of shame in them, he sighed. "There's someone else, isn't there?"

She gulped and nodded, taking refuge behind the tissues again. "I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean to hurt you."

He'd known, somehow. He didn't know how. That didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell. "That's a funny way to not hurt me." After a few moments of silence from him and tears from her, Greg added, "Who is it?"

Luce sniffled into her tissues, then said, "Gary."

"Gary..." Greg was pretty sure he didn't know a Gary. "Gary who?"

She scrubbed the tissues across her eyes and gave him a look, as though annoyed he didn't know the man who'd been sleeping with his wife. "Gary at school!" There was a pause, then she added, "The PE teacher!"

"Oh! Him!" Greg remembered him. They'd met once when Greg had gone to pick up Luce after a Parents' Night. Greg hadn't thought much of him at the time. 'Good-time Gary' was what he'd thought. He'd met the type before - usually on the other side of the law. Easy-going, able to lay on the charm, and ready to take whatever they could as long as they wouldn't get caught. _'I'll take what you give me and I won't ask why...'_ The words from some song from a musical floated through his head. Yeah, that was Good-time Gary, alright. Greg sighed. "So why come back? Why aren't you off with lover boy?"

After a minute's silence and the way she avoided his gaze, the penny dropped.

"He's married and he won't leave his wife for you."

"It's not like that!" Luce protested instantly. "They're staying together for the sake of the kid!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Luce - how many times has that line been used?"

"You don't understand!"

"No, no, Luce, I don't!" Greg stood up, suddenly too angry to remain sitting. "My wife's been sleeping around with her married co-worker and I don't understand! So why don't you explain it to me, then?"

She remained silent and Greg took great pleasure in stalking out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

He was halfway down the stairs when his phone rang. For a moment, he was tempted to throw it at the wall, but the number was Donovan's and Greg knew she'd only call again. He took a deep breath and answered just before it went to voicemail.

~~~

"Yeah, I know him." Greg leaned over the body. The face looked peaceful, which didn't match the large, ugly stab wound in the chest. "Where did you find him?"

Donovan waited until he straightened up before answering. "Just at the back of New Bond Street. He was due on his shift at Mews of Mayfair - it's some kind of fancy restaurant - and didn't show." She paused, then added, "He had your number in his phone."

"Yeah, I interviewed him over that stabbing." Greg eyed the body again. "Remember? The Westlock one? We figured it was a mugging gone wrong."

Donovan's eyes widened slightly. "Like this then."

"Just like this." Greg rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I thought it was a bit farfetched, but Westlock liked to take his girlfriend to Mews of Mayfair, and no one could ID the girlfriend. I interviewed him," he nodded his head at the body, "to see if he had any kind of description of her."

"And did he?"

"Tall, thin, blonde...rather classy, he said." Greg headed towards the door of the morgue, Donovan on his heels. "I can't see it though. Why would the girlfriend kill Westlock and then Ahlgren?"

"If Westlock was deliberately killed -"

"If! It's all 'ifs'! _If_ Westlock was deliberately killed, _if_ it was his girlfriend, Ahlgren could have been killed to avoid identifying her. He wasn't the only waiter in that restaurant though - if it's the girlfriend, is she going to go round killing them all? And why?"

Donovan shrugged. "Extra-marital affair? Didn't want her husband to find out?"

Greg winced at that as he shoved open his office door. "He's stupid if he doesn't already know. Shit." His computer refused to start and Greg kicked the leg of his desk.

After a long, silence-filled pause, Donovan said, "It's your day off; you should go home." When he finally raised his head and looked at her, she added, "How's the cat doing?"

"Fine. Driving me crazy." And probably driving Luce crazy too. "Look, get onto the rest of the waiters and ask them about Westlock. Maybe one of them can remember more."

Once outside, Greg stopped to take a deep breath. It seemed everything in his life was connected to adultery at the moment. Well, apart from Sherlock, of course. Talking of whom...

"Sherlock?"

The cat gave him a long familiar look, though Greg wasn't convinced it was Sherlock. Not until the cat stood and flicked a tail in his direction, revealing the patch of white on his hind paw that stopped Sherlock from being pure black.

Greg set off after him, cursing as Sherlock dodged traffic to cross the road. "Sherlock!" Dodging cars in his turn, Greg reflected that at least Luce would get the house to herself if he got killed trying to catch up with a cat with a death wish. As Greg neared him, Sherlock set off again, running to the corner and staring back until Greg followed. Several roads and a few near misses later, Greg was convinced Sherlock was leading him somewhere on purpose. He just hoped no one who knew him had spotted him following a cat on a wild goose chase.

He rounded the corner and stepped up his pace as Sherlock ran to a wooden front door and started battering at it with his paws, yowling loudly as he did so. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

The door opened and Sherlock ran in, past the woman who'd opened it. "Hello again to you," she said.

Greg stopped, staring at her. Of anyone, she was the last person he'd expected to open the door; apart from anything else, he'd thought she was still in Florida. "Mrs. Hudson."

She jumped and turned to look at him, then smiled widely. "Greg!" She gave him a hug, then stood back, delight on her face. "I didn't expect to run into you - on my own doorstep too. Do you fancy a cuppa?"

"I'd love one." It'd also give him a chance to find out if Sherlock belonged to her.

It wasn't until he was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea and a plateful of biscuits in front of him, that Greg mentioned the cat who was currently hoovering up a saucerful of milk. "He yours, is he?"

"He's not mine, are you, love?" Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a long stroke down his back. "He turns up now and then and demands milk. I wish I knew who his owners are - he's out day and night, it seems!"

"I wouldn't call myself his owner, but he's living with me." As Mrs. Hudson looked at him, Greg added, "He moved in a few days ago. I'm in Montague Street."

The surprise on Mrs. Hudson's face deepened. "That's a bit far from here. Where have you been wandering?"

That last bit was directed to Sherlock who ignored it, and Greg felt glad he wasn't the only human Sherlock acted that way towards. "Well, it's to be hoped he stops his wandering. I'll be moving soon and God knows where I'll end up." He hoped it wouldn't be in a cardboard box or in a squat; the powers that be at the Yard expected a bit more from their detective inspectors than that.

"That's a coincidence," Mrs. Hudson said, nudging the plate of biscuits his way. "I'm looking for a tenant. Or two," she added, her gaze dropping to his wedding ring.

Greg looked down at it himself. He didn't know why he was still wearing it as Luce had made it clear the marriage was over. She'd only come back to keep a roof over her head and Greg was damned if he'd be the one providing the roof for another man's mistress. "One. Well, unless you count the cat."

"Oh, love." Mrs. Hudson patted his hand gently. "It might get better, you know. Don't make any hasty decisions."

"I'm not the one who's made the decision," Greg replied, more anger in his tone than he wanted.

"I'm sorry to hear that, love. Some women don't know when they're well off." Mrs. Hudson patted his hand again, then got to her feet. "I'll show you around and you can see what you think."

Greg had to admit the flat was nice. It was a good size, especially considering its location, and the rent was only a little bit more than he was paying at the moment. He suspected Mrs. Hudson was giving him a discount, but couldn't bring himself to argue. Maybe once he'd moved in he could persuade her to up the rent a little. After all, he'd be saving on travel, though it always cost more to live alone. Sherlock bounded past and Greg amended that to 'sort of alone', not that Sherlock would be contributing to the rent. Gazing out of the front window that gave a good view of Baker Street, Greg sighed to himself and wondered why he was wasting time thinking.

"When can I move in?"

~~~

"You're what?" For a married woman who was carrying on with another bloke, Luce managed an indignant look quite well.

"Moving out," Greg said, dropping a pile of work shirts into his suitcase. "Bob's coming round with a van in an hour to help me move my things. I'll be taking one of the bedside cabinets. I assume you want the bed?" She had to want the bed; where else could she mope over her married lover's refusal to leave his wife?

"But...what about me?"

Greg stopped, his arms full of trousers. "What about you?"

"Well, what am I supposed to do?"

"About what?"

"About everything!" Luce threw her arms wide. "What about the rent and the bills?"

"I'll cancel the direct debits. You'll have to set them up on your account." Greg felt grateful they'd kept separate accounts for their wages, though he'd spent more on the rent and bills than she ever had on groceries. He shoved the trousers into the suitcase and added his t-shirts. "I'll withdraw half the money from the savings account and tell them to take my name off it."

"But... Greg, you can't possibly move out and leave me to it!"

Greg gave her a long, long look. After a moment, she turned red. "Maybe you can get Good-time Gary to move in with you."

"Don't call him that!"

"It's a damned sight more polite than what I'd like to call him!" Greg held onto his temper with difficulty and went back to zipping up his suitcase. Fortunately for both of them, Luce took the hint and stormed downstairs to leave him to it.

It didn't take Greg that long to get himself together, and he'd just finished stripping the house of his personal belongings when Bob pulled up in his van. Greg dropped the last CD into the box and thought it was a good job he'd never put much stock in material goods. If Luce had been the one packing up, it would have taken her the better part of a week to get her stuff organised.

Luce came in before Greg could get to the door. "Leaving me the furniture then, are you?"

"I'm taking an armchair but you'll have the sofa and the other one." Greg slid past her and opened the door. "Hiya, Bob."

"Hi...oh, uh, hi, Luce." Bob stopped in the doorway, his gaze going from Greg to Luce and back again. "Still want me to move some stuff for you?"

"Yep." Greg hoisted a box up and shoved it into his arms. "These boxes, the suitcases, a bedside cabinet, and an armchair."

"Right ho, then." Bob disappeared out of the door.

"Greg!"

Greg cast a look at Luce and picked up another box. "If I forget anything, give me a ring on my mobile and I'll come pick it up."

Luce gave an angry sigh and folded her arms. "You'd better take the sofa." For a second, her eyes met his, then she looked away. "You'll need somewhere to sleep tonight."

The box still in his hands, Greg leaned around it and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Unable to stop himself, he said, "Don't waste your time waiting for Good-time Gary, Luce; he's not worth it."

She didn't meet his gaze, instead rubbing one hand over his arm. "Go on, then. And don't forget to take that cat with you."

~~~

The journey to Baker Street took longer than expected as they got caught in traffic jam after traffic jam, and Greg sighed as he watched the time tick over past five o'clock. He'd hoped to try out some second hand furniture shops, to supplement the sofa and bedside cabinet which were now his only pieces of furniture. Oh, well, that'd have to wait until his next day off. At least he'd still be able to get to the shops to buy some blankets and necessities, including food as most of the food he'd bought that morning was currently sitting in Luce's cupboards and fridge freezer. He'd made sure to bring the cat food though, so at least Sherlock wouldn't go hungry.

By the time Greg got back from the supermarket, he was hungry and thirsty and not at all impressed to discover Sherlock had laid claim to the sofa and seemed to think sharing was over-rated. Greg made tea with his new kettle and toast with his new toaster then sat on the arm of the sofa to eat it. As soon as Sherlock got up to demand his share of the butter, Greg slid off the arm and into a seat, then pacified Sherlock by giving him half a slice of toast.

"That's not good for you, you know," Greg said as Sherlock started eating it. Greg had expected him to lick the butter off, but he suspected Sherlock might be feeling contrary. Sherlock ignored him and Greg added, "And don't think I'll be sleeping on the floor tonight while you kip on the sofa."

Once Greg had finished his tea and toast, he disposed of the remains of Sherlock's half-slice in the bin, then got to work sorting out the pieces for one of the shelf units he'd picked up from Tesco. The instructions said he needed a screwdriver and a hammer but since his toolbox was sitting in one of Luce's cupboards, Greg made a note to buy a basic toolkit on a spare piece of paper, then set to work building the shelf unit using a knife for a screwdriver and one of his shoes as a hammer.

Despite his improvised tools, it didn't actually take him too long to build the shelf unit, and he set to work on the second one, leaving Sherlock to dive in and out of the boxes and hide a number of screws underneath the first unit. He was just taking a breather when there was a quiet knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson came in.

"You have been busy!"

"Ah, sorry about that. I hope the hammering isn't disturbing..." Greg's voice trailed off as he saw the plate full of food in her hands.

"I just thought I'd make you some dinner," she said, disappearing into the kitchen. "I know you've got a stove in here, but, well, I wasn't sure what food you've got, and you do seem to have been a bit too busy to cook."

Greg got up and followed his nose to the enticing smell wafting off the plate. "Mrs. Hudson, you're an angel."

She gave him a blush and a smile. "And don't worry about the hammering. I can see you've almost finished anyway." She patted him on the shoulder as he sat down and hurried off down the stairs.

As soon as she'd gone, Sherlock leapt up onto the table and started eyeing Greg's dinner. Greg sighed and shook his head, then reached over and grabbed a plate off the countertop. Sherlock tucked into his share of the meat and gravy, and Greg got a move on and ate his before Sherlock could demand more. "At the rate you eat my food," Greg said between mouthfuls, "you ought to be the size of a hippo."

Pale green eyes gave him a disdainful look.

Greg sighed as he finished the meal. While he wasn't a bad cook, Mrs. Hudson's cooking was infinitely better, and Greg wondered if he could persuade her to cook for him every now and then. It had made a nice change to be eating a home-cooked meal that Greg hadn't had to prepare beforehand too.

Food reminded him of that waiter and he pulled out his mobile and gave Sally's desk a ring. Unsurprisingly, she was still there. Also unsurprisingly, the other waiters either knew nothing or were claiming to know nothing. Greg rubbed his hands over his face. He hated unsolved cases and had a bad feeling this was going to be one.

~~~

The next day didn't start off too badly: Greg let Sherlock out of the flat and followed him downstairs to let him out of the front door. Instead, Sherlock took a sharp left at the foot of the stairs and rattled the knob of Mrs. Hudson's door until it opened and he could get in.

"Good morning, love." Mrs. Hudson didn't sound at all put out, but Greg still felt a bit guilty as he lurked in the hall and eavesdropped through the closed door. "Do you want some breakfast? No? Straight out into the yard then. No, don't mind me. I'll make you a bit of fish for breakfast while you're busy."

Greg shook his head as he retreated into his own flat. Sherlock seemed to believe he had the run of the house with Mrs. Hudson as his own personal servant, and Greg wasn't so sure he was wrong.

Once he was in work, Greg made a detour to the admin department and got the paperwork sorted for his change of address...and removing Luce as his next of kin. He caught the curious looks and knew the gossip mill would be going full tilt as soon as he left the room but couldn't bring himself to care. The sooner it was sorted, the better.

"The Super's looking for you."

Greg sighed and shut his office door behind him as he headed up the corridor beside Sally. "Did he say why?"

"A new case he said."

It was a new case, though it didn't seem to be much of one.

"But if she committed suicide why are we investigating?"

Superintendent Harrock shrugged. "There was no note and she was found in a warehouse after leaving her birthday party. It doesn't sound like anything to me - we all know not all suicides leave notes behind - but the weird thing is the toxicology report. It was an unusual poison - God knows how she got hold of it - and would have taken her about twenty minutes to die. Even odder is that this is the third suicide we've had like this." He leaned forward and pushed a few files at Greg. "I don't think there's anything in it, but it's got the higher ups in a flap, what with her being a junior minister and all. Just do your best with it."

Greg repressed his urge to groan; just what he needed - a case with 'interested parties' breathing down the Super's neck. He nodded and got up, then froze as the Super added, "There's a press conference scheduled for this afternoon." He smiled. "No pressure."

~~~

"No pressure." Greg resisted the urge to hurl the files at the wall. "No bleeding pressure." He handed a file to Sally. "You read that one, I'll read this one, then we'll swap."

Even after reading the files, Greg felt none the wiser. They looked like suicides - odd, bizarre suicides, with no notes and a poison you couldn't buy over the counter - but...but...

Okay, so birthdays often brought up emotions. Fear of aging, realising your youth was disappearing in the rear view mirror faster than a speeding bullet, with maybe the odd twinge of envy that these youngsters still had trim, slim figures and no double chin and middle-aged spread. Was that enough to commit suicide? Ms. Davenport seemed to think so. Or maybe it was an unhappy love affair, or dissatisfaction with her career, or...

Greg didn't know.

Talking of love affairs, Sir James Patterson, who'd seemed to be enjoying his high profile career along with his very pretty secretary, if Greg was right.

Greg winced at the reminder of adultery and turned his thoughts to the teenager. James Phillimore - went off home to collect an umbrella and went to a sports centre to top himself instead. How did that make sense?

It didn't, that was the problem. No wonder the higher ups didn't like it. Taken individually, you could shrug them off as suicides being unpredictable. Together, three of them, it didn't smell right.

And Greg had a press conference to hold and nothing concrete to tell them.

As soon as the conference was over, Greg mentally face-palmed himself. _"Serial suicides,"_ he'd said. _"Don't commit suicide."_ He was going to look a right berk in the papers, he knew it.

Sally came up beside him and gave him a sympathetic look. "Maybe there'll be more information tomorrow."

Greg hoped not. He had a strong suspicion there'd have to be another so-called suicide for them to know more.

By the time he got home, he was tired, hungry, thirsty, and hoping for a little peace. It didn't look as if he'd get it, by the way Mrs. Hudson appeared as soon as he got inside.

"That Sherlock!" she said, sounding more fond than annoyed. "He's got another cat up there!"

Greg sighed. What the hell was Sherlock up to now? He mounted the stairs and opened the door slowly. Sherlock was easily seen; he was stretched out on the sofa as if taking his leisure. Greg pushed the door further open and peered carefully around the edge. There was the other cat - a small grey tabby, sitting bolt upright, its - her? - front paws neatly together, on a large cardboard box.

Greg looked at Sherlock.  "You haven't got her pregnant, have you?!" That would be all Greg needed - half a dozen little Sherlock kittens, running around, climbing the curtains, and stealing his dinner.

Sherlock's relaxed attitude disappeared and he rolled over so fast he fell off the sofa. His head slowly came into view over the top of the box Greg was temporarily using as a coffee table, and he gave Greg a hard stare.

The grey tabby seemed similarly affronted and it - he, as Greg soon realised - stood up, turned around, and sat down with his back to Greg, giving proof on the way that whatever else Sherlock had done, getting this cat pregnant wasn't one of them.

Greg clutched the edge of the door in relief. "Sorry." As the tabby cat turned his head and looked at him, Greg apologised to him too. "It's been a bad day," he added.

Sherlock jumped up onto the cardboard box coffee table and gave Greg an interested look.

Greg dumped his laptop case on the sofa and headed into the kitchen. "I've got a new case. Serial suicides, if you can believe it." From the look on Sherlock's face, he didn't. He also didn't move when Greg put cat food out. Greg waited. The tabby cat was looking, a hungry look in his eyes, but made no move towards the bowls. Instead, he kept looking at Sherlock then Greg, as if trying to guess if it was okay to eat.

"Come on." Greg hunkered down and held out his hand to the tabby, wriggling his fingers enticingly. "Come on and eat. Sherlock might act like he doesn't need to but you look hungry."

It took a few moments, but finally the tabby approached, carefully bypassing Greg's hand, as he limped to the food. Greg stood up and backed off slowly, giving the cat room to be comfortable. "Is there something wrong with your leg?" he asked, though he knew the cat wouldn't reply. "Maybe it's just a sprain or a twist. Did Sherlock push you off the sofa?"

Sherlock gave him a disgusted look, then joined the tabby at the food bowl. Greg grinned and put the kettle on. If the tabby could get Sherlock to eat, Greg guessed he could stay.

Once he was armed with a cup of tea and a packet of biscuits, Greg sat down at the coffee table cardboard box and opened up his laptop. Sherlock promptly jumped up onto the box and started poking at the laptop, as if to get it to hurry up. As the laptop made an alarming beep, Greg moved it to one side. "Here, check out the photos."

The tabby jumped back up onto the other cardboard box and craned his neck as if trying to see.

Greg bit back another grin. Now he had two of them at it.

Explaining the case took less time than Greg had expected. It took longer to explain - more thinking out loud than anything else - that the deaths couldn't be connected as serial suicides just didn't happen. It had to be a coincidence. Had to be. There was nothing to connect them; they were three random people who chose to kill themselves using the same obscure poison that would take approximately twenty minutes to kill them.

Greg stopped talking, staring at the photos spread out before him. Three deaths. Three random, out of the way locations those people had no reason to be in. One poison.

He looked from one cat to the other. They looked back at him. "It's got to be a coincidence," he said.

~~~

The next day had a waiting feel to it, like the quiet before a storm. Greg hid out in his office and ignored the newspapers - he'd been right about looking like a berk. Donovan didn't seem affected; she was too busy making eyes at Anderson whose wife was away for the week. Greg was starting to think he was surrounded by adultery. Talking of which, Luce texted him to tell him he could pick up his toolbox. Greg made a mental note to call in before he went home and went back to waiting for the other shoe to drop.

By the time he got home, Greg felt tired, irritated, and very much on edge. He put out food for the newly-named John, turned the kettle on, and wandered over to the window. Sherlock was watching him from the coffee table and giving his briefcase pointed looks, but Greg left him to it. The kettle had turned itself off and was undoubtedly cold again before Greg's patience was rewarded by the sight of Donovan in a police car.

She met him at the top of the stairs. "There's been another one." Before Greg could ask which case, she added, "You know how they never leave a note? She left a note."

Greg could have jumped for joy if there hadn't been a dead woman involved. He grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs behind Donovan. "Where?"

"Brixton."

Donovan got into the back of the panda car and Greg yanked open the front door, then stopped as Sherlock zoomed past him and into the back.

"Sherlock, get out!"

Sherlock glared at him and dug all his claws into the seat.

"You can't come with us!"

"Sir?"

Greg looked from Donovan to the young constable in the driver's seat and face-palmed himself. This was going to destroy his reputation.

"Sherlock!" Greg gave up when John shot past him and joined Sherlock on the back seat. "Forget it; let's go."

As the constable started the car, Donovan leaned forward and said, "We can't let cats in a crime scene! And where did the other one come from?"

"He followed him home." Greg twisted in his seat. "And we won't let them into the crime scene."

"We?"

Greg gave Donovan a look and put his seatbelt on. Okay, _he_ would do his best to keep his crime-obsessed cat away from the dead body.

Of course he failed. Donovan had barely opened her door before Sherlock - rapidly followed by John - was out of the car and racing for a house whose front step was adorned by two detective constables. They went left, the cats went right, and by the time Greg climbed three flights of stairs Sherlock was prowling the room like a bloodhound.

"Those are cats!"

One point to Anderson for stating the obvious, Greg thought.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock cast him a glance and disappeared through the doorway. After a pause, John followed him. Greg ignored the pair of them and got on with processing the crime scene.

The note, such as it was, was a puzzle. The woman who'd left it had spent her dying moments scratching _RACHE_ into the floorboards. Anderson was talking about it being the German for 'revenge', but Greg's mind had leapt to the name Rachel. Had there been a Rachel in the woman's life? Maybe Anderson was right and the so-called suicides were fuelled by revenge.

It was hours later that Greg left the house to find John sitting inside the panda car and Sherlock howling in the darkness.

"He's over there, sir." Donovan pointed to where a dark shadow paced. "I grabbed the other one, but he wouldn't let me near him."

"Sherlock?" Greg took a step towards him, then broke into a run as Sherlock bolted up the alleyway. "I haven't got time for this!"

The shadow turned in the light thrown by a streetlight and yowled at him again.

Greg had already made an arse of himself once, so he really had nothing to lose. He followed along, using his mobile phone for a torch, and was rewarded by the sight of Sherlock scrambling up and into a large dumpster. It didn't take Greg more than a glance to spot the pink suitcase, not with Sherlock's teeth clamped around the string of an attached label as he yanked at it as if he could pull the whole thing free himself.

"Alright. Alright, Sherlock, well done. Let go now." Greg lifted Sherlock out of the way. A pink suitcase and a dead woman dressed all in pink. There was no way this was a coincidence. "Donovan!" he shouted. "Get Anderson."

The suitcase, naturally, was taken straight to Scotland Yard. Sherlock and John, to Sherlock's loud indignation, were taken back to 221b. Greg had to promise him photos of the suitcase and its contents to shut him up.

Back at the Yard, Greg regarded the suitcase with a tinge of sadness. The case contained enough for a weekend away in the city, and instead the woman was lying in the morgue. There'd be no returning home for her. As Anderson pored over the contents, looking for any clue to the woman's identity, Greg idly read the tag Sherlock had been tugging at.

_jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk_

At least they had a first name now, and maybe her phone would give them some hint as to who she met with.

"Where's her phone?"

Anderson looked up. "There was no phone."

"There has to be." Greg looked at the tag again. "A smart phone. Maybe it was in her pockets."

Anderson shook his head. "There was nothing in her pockets and there's no phone in her bag or case."

Greg looked at the tag again. "Then who's got her phone?"

~~~

It wasn't until the next day that they managed to identify Jennie as Jennifer Wilson who'd gone to London for the weekend and would never be returning home. There was a Rachel too, a still-born baby from a number of years past. Greg shook his head at the report. While it was only natural Jennie's last thoughts had been of the child she'd lost, Greg couldn't understand why she'd gone to so much effort - and pain - as to scratch her child's name on the floor. Anderson was still talking about the German for 'revenge' but Greg tuned him out. He had a gut feeling Jennie had meant Rachel, and meant it as a message, but who it was for had Greg stumped.

Even the confirmation that Jennie had a smart phone that never left her side didn't help. Greg had rung her number but couldn't get an answer. Finally, he sent a text identifying himself as Detective Inspector Lestrade and asked whoever had the phone to turn it in.

Greg also had a gut feeling that Jennie's weekends away were to meet up with lovers, but he was ignoring that. They couldn't _all_ be committing adultery, after all.

Greg finished putting together his new coffee table and regarded it with satisfaction. He couldn't get anywhere on his latest cases but at least his flat was looking better. One coffee table versus people's lives. Greg fought the urge to bang his head on the coffee table.

It didn't help Greg's mood that Sherlock seemed determined to destroy his laptop and kept on bouncing on it.

"Will you leave that laptop alone!"

Sherlock yowled at him and stalked off to smash something in the kitchen.

Greg pulled his new coffee table towards him and opened up his laptop. Maybe while Sherlock was busy...

John meowed and Sherlock came diving back in to resume his place approximately two centimeters from the laptop.

"Snitch."

As soon as it was up and running, Greg reached for his notebook and started flicking through it. Was there anything he'd missed? Anything that would help? He moved Sherlock off the keyboard, then moved him off again. Then tried to get his notebook out from underneath Sherlock's paw.

Sherlock gave a screech of indignation and dug his claws into the page.

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" Greg checked out the scratch mark just above the 'mephone'. Her phone. Jennie's phone.

Greg stared at the page. It couldn't be that simple, could it? The mephone page was easily found and Greg held his breath as he typed in _jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk_ , clicked in the password box and typed in _rachel_.

It worked. And Greg would bet the last of his savings that Jennie's phone was with her killer - or had been. Greg kicked himself for sending that text. Maybe the killer still had the phone. Whether they did or not, Greg had to give it to Jennifer Wilson: In the middle of the ordeal that killed her, she'd figured out a way to lead them to her murderer.

"So where are you?" The dial on the page stopped spinning and Greg yanked his jacket on, shoved his keys and wallet into his pocket, grabbed his laptop and ran.

Two streets later, he was gazing at a local restaurant. It couldn't be this easy, it just couldn't. Greg stepped around a parked taxi waiting for a fare and pushed the restaurant door open, then stopped. Sir James Patterson's pretty secretary came to mind, sobbing into a handful of tissues that she'd talked to him, he was just as normal, and she'd told him to catch a cab...

A car door opened behind him.

~~~

Greg opened his eyes and blinked slowly. A familiar-looking coffee table slid into focus then out of it. He'd been at the restaurant. There'd been a cab... A stabbing pain... Greg blinked again. He remembered staggering, shouting out, a calm voice saying he was drunk. "Best to take him home and let him sleep it off."

As the fog started to clear, Greg realised he was home, on his sofa, with an ordinary-looking man calmly sitting on a box opposite him.

The man nodded. "It's nice here. Just moved in, have you?"

Greg blinked some more. "Mrs. Hudson."

"Away. So there's no point in raising your voice. We're all locked in, nice and snug. Just you, me, and your cats."

At least that was a relief. Greg was positive the harmless-looking cabby wouldn't balk at killing Mrs. Hudson.

"You killed Jennifer Wilson."

"Was that her name? The one with the phone?" The cabby shook his head. "She was clever - you've got to hand it to her. Gave me one heck of a shock when you started phoning."

Greg wished the fuzziness in his brain would clear. He suspected he was going to need all his wits about him. "So you know who I am."

"Course I do! I saw you on TV, didn't I? You were advisin' people not to commit suicide!"

"And now I'm going to commit suicide."

The cabby leaned forward, a smug look on his face. "That's irony, that is."

"Bit of a risk though, isn't it? Coming here." Where was Donovan? He hadn't been able to get rid of her the past few days.

"You call that a risk?" He slipped his hands into his cardigan pockets and produced a bottle from each. " _This_ is a risk." He set the bottles down on the coffee table.

"Two bottles." Naturally, Sherlock chose that moment to jump up on the table and start poking at the bottles.

"Two bottles, two pills." The cabby pushed Sherlock away. "There's a good pill and a bad pill. You take the good pill, you live; take the bad pill, you die."

Greg peered at the bottles again. "And you know which is which."

"Course I know!"

"But I don't." Greg thought Sherlock might from the way he was poking at the bottles.

"It wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses."

So that was it. All those people had chosen the wrong pill. "It's chance..." It had to be, didn't it?

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Detective Inspector, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this...this is the move." He slid one bottle across the table. "Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? You choose."

Sherlock was on the table again and the cabby pushed him down. Greg got the impression the cabby wasn't used to playing chess with cats. He also had the sneaking impression Sherlock would be a better player than Greg.

"Why can't you be like the other one?" the cabby asked, pushing Sherlock off the table again. "He's nice and quiet."

Greg focussed on John who was sitting in the kitchen doorway, his front paws neatly together as he watched.

"What if I don't choose?" Greg asked.

"Then I'll choose for you, and you don't want that."

Greg looked at the cabby again. He seemed like such an ordinary little man in his flat cap and cardigan. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why not?"

"There must be some reason, a motive." There always was, in Greg's experience. "How did you choose your victims?"

The cabby shrugged. "Anyone who didn't know where they were going, 'cause they were drunk or lost or new in town. Anyone I could walk through the wrong door."

"Just anyone..." The cabby's gaze met his and the penny dropped. "You're dying."

A flicker of the eyelids told Greg he was right. "So are you."

Greg stuck to it, something telling him he was on the right track. "You don't have long, though. Am I right?"

The cabby smiled and gave a half-laugh. "Aneurysm." He lifted a hand and tapped the side of his head. "Right in 'ere. Any breath could be my last."

"So that's why. You murdered four people for that."

"I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can 'ave with an aneurysm." The cabby smiled again. "And now, it's gonna be five."

Sherlock was back on the table again, his paw knocked over the pill bottle closest to the cabby and rolled it towards Greg. Greg fumbled for it as the cabby pushed Sherlock down again.

"That's your choice then?"

Greg managed a shrug. Sherlock seemed to have more of an idea than he did.

The cabby gave another half-laugh and reached for the remaining bottle. "Interesting."

The lid was easy to unscrew and the pill sat in Greg's hand. It was such a small thing, and surprisingly light, given that it most likely carried death in its innards.

"Come on," the cabby urged, anticipation in his tone. "It's time to take our medicine."

Greg raised his hand, seeing no help for it but to hope Sherlock was right. Then the cabby screamed, the pill flying from his hand as he swung to one side with a small, soldierly-looking tabby cat clinging to his face with all claws extended. Even Sherlock seemed impressed with John's anger as John yowled and hissed. Greg thought it sounded terrifying from a distance; only God and the cabby knew how it sounded close up. Greg dropped the pill and staggered to his feet, then promptly fell down as his legs gave way beneath him. The cabby fell too and John leapt to one side. The sudden silence was almost stunning.

Lying there, Greg waited for the cabby to move, to groan, something...but there was nothing. Greg turned his head to look at John, who was, once again, the very model of a well-behaved tabby cat: Quiet, contained, and smacking Sherlock's paw away from the pill Greg had dropped.

Greg reached for his phone and managed to haul it out of his pocket and up to his face. It was time to call in the cavalry.

~~~

It wasn't until the next morning that Greg was released from the hospital. Donovan drove him home and insisted on walking him up the stairs. Her ulterior motive was revealed when she took the time to stroke John, the unexpected hero of the hour after he caused the cabby to drop dead of his aneurysm. Sherlock was too busy sulking on the sofa to even acknowledge Greg's return.

Once Donovan had gone, Greg made himself a cup of tea and took a seat next to Sherlock. "Well then." He opened up his laptop and clicked to open the file on Westlock's death. Just because he was on sick leave for a couple of days didn't mean he couldn't look at some cases. "Sherlock, John..."

John jumped up on the coffee table and Sherlock deigned to raise his head to look.

"What do you think about this mugging gone wrong then?"

The end. Or rather, the beginning!  
14th August 2016.


End file.
